


Angel With A Dirty Mouth

by MissMoochy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Untitled Goose Game (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bets & Wagers, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mischief, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: "Everyone knows it’s excusable to swear if the world is going to end.”Rating will go up to Explicit. Crowley and Aziraphale are adjusting to the new normal, after the events of the show. Aziraphale is recounting when he stepped in the circle and discorporated, and reveals that he swore as it happened. Crowley is intrigued and will do anything to make the fussy angel swear in his presence. 5 times Crowley tried to make Aziraphale swear, +1. Updated every Saturday.





	1. The Challenge Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Please drop a kudos or comment if you liked it!

They’d stood at the brink of it all, alongside the Antichrist, facing Heaven, Hell and Satan himself, to preserve the big blue marble they’d come to love so dearly. They’d been put on trial by their own kind. Death had seemed like a certainty. But somehow, against all odds, they’d survived. And this was their reward. Peace. 

The first week was awkward. Both Crowley and Aziraphale were paranoid, expecting recompense from their former comrades, but when it became clear they were going to be left to their own devices, they relaxed a little. Although there was no harm in being cautious.

Crowley had adapted to this new free lifestyle with relative ease, but Aziraphale took a little longer. Sometimes he still took offence at something Crowley said about “their side” or panicked if he saw a human passer-by who resembled Michael or Gabriel’s corporations. He’d mostly stopped the “holier-than-thou” act and hadn’t called Crowley “infernal”, a “fiend” or his “enemy” for a few months now. The times he had slipped up, okay, they’d hurt. Not that Crowley would ever _ dream _ of telling him that. No, no, it wasn’t like Crowley thought that they’d be skipping through fields together or holidaying in Hawaii when they were shunned by their former associates, but he’d thought something would change. He knew Aziraphale was his best friend and although the angel had never verbally confirmed it, Crowley knew he was Aziraphale’s as well. But he’d be lying if he said his feelings were strictly platonic. It was Crowley’s fault, it had to be. Demonic urges and all that. Lust, coveting. The urge to rip off Aziraphale’s clothes and make sweet, passionate love to him. Yup, had to be a demon thing. Perhaps they felt more humanly urges than angels. Angels don’t even dance. How weird is that? Oh, but Aziraphale was so clever. And designed to sense love, inspire love. How could he not sense the love rolling off Crowley in waves? Feel Crowley’s cold, dead heart leap when Aziraphale flashed that beautiful little smile. 

Even such a smile was so reserved. Closed-lipped, very correct. But Crowley’s dirty mind had to make it into something more. Poor Aziraphale - he couldn’t win. If he smiled with those perfect pink lips closed, Crowley would imagine them, wrapped around something that...hadn’t been wrapped for a while. And if Aziraphale smiled with those sparkling white teeth, Crowley would picture them nibbling at his ear, or his neck, or raking down Crowley’s chest. Love is a great nuisance, an infection, more potent and debilitating than anything that Pestilence had unleashed on the world. He was sick and the longer he spent in Aziraphale’s company, the sicker he got. He could hardly begrudge Aziraphale that, though.

They sat, now, in Aziraphale’s bookshop, and Aziraphale was telling him about when Seargent Shadwell stormed into that very shop, labouring under the impression that Aziraphale was a witch. Crowley laughed until he cried, and then sobered up as it brought back memories of walking through the burning bookshop, seeing only charred pages and leaping flames and no sign of the only being that mattered to him. He knew Aziraphale was getting to the part about how he’d come to be discorporated; Crowley was anxious to hear it. In the months they’d been adjusting to this new normal, Aziraphale had avoided talking about it, but sitting in his new and improved bookshop, he seemed ready now.

“And I was trying to usher him out of the shop, but then he pointed and I felt the energy charge around me, and I swore as I realised I was standing i _ n the portal _ and I could feel myself disintegrate-”

Normally, Crowley would listen, rapt, as Aziraphale spoke, especially when he was recounting events where Crowley had not been present. He would commit every word to memory and savour it later. But this insignificant little footnote struck him as odd. Nothing to worry about. Just new. “When you say you swore, do you mean you said _ Oh heavens _ or something?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Actually, I said an actual swear word. One the humans are very fond of. The, the F word.”

“What!?” Crowley said, roaring with laughter. “You did not!”

“It’s not funny! I was stressed and upset, I thought it was all over. I think the Lord can forgive me for having colourful language at such a troubling time. Everyone knows it’s excusable to swear if the world is going to end.”

Crowley smirked, shaking his head in disbelief and tried to picture it. That silly, prissy little voice barking out a hard word, those lovely big lips that bloomed like petals, thinned with annoyance. Crowley had always had an excellent imagination but this was something difficult to conceptualise. He had no frame of reference. In all the time he’d known him, the angel had never sworn in his company. He wanted to see it, he realised. Wanted to hear it. Didn’t matter which word it was, so long as it was filthy. The problem was, Aziraphale seemed unwilling to slip up again, and Crowley didn’t feel like causing Armageddon anytime soon. Oh well, no matter. One last temptation, then. Tempting the Principality Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate to swear. Should be simple enough.


	2. Get Out Of My Dreams And Into My Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries his hand at making Aziraphale swear, using a rental car and some modern music. It goes about as well as could be expected.

Crowley pulled up outside Aziraphale’s shop, the next day, at noon in a car that made the angel raise his eyebrows.

“Get in, angel, we’re going for a drive,” Crowley said. He tried to say it with what the humans call “big dick energy” because the car was very small and very yellow. He was told it was called a hybrid, a hybrid of what, he wasn’t sure. A banana and a children’s toy, possibly. It looked too small to drive, but he couldn’t use his own vehicle for this.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “What happened to the Bentley?”

“This is a rental, I thought we could go to Brighton,” Crowley said, evading the question and pushed the passenger door open. Aziraphale hopped in.

* * *

Crowley could be patient when he wanted, so he let them drive in amicable silence for half an hour. Amicable enough but not comfortable. For him, anyway. In this dull human car, the hideous grey upholstery and the obnoxious tiny tree air freshener dangling in his view, he was more aware of Aziraphale then ever. It was easy in the Bentley to blast the radio, sink back into the seats and blaze his way through London, but the Bentley was his, it was special, it didn’t know what an MOT was and it could handle a lot of abuse. This car was a silly human design, one of those ugly modern machines that look rather like clown cars, and he was afraid to be too reckless with it, so he was forced to drive at what (to him) was a snail’s pace. And the bloody car was so small, Aziraphale seemed to be fine but Crowley’s legs were uncomfortably cramped. He wished he could revert to his natural form, but a devastatingly handsome snake driving a yellow Toyota along the A23 might catch unwanted attention. Besides, what would he steer with?

But this, sat by the only being he’d ever truly loved, so aware of him, horribly aware. The sound of Aziraphale shifting in his seat, the little whisper of slippery polyester as Aziraphale fidgeted with his seatbelt. At some point, Aziraphale brought out a little white bag of hard-boiled sweets, sherbert lemons they looked like, and offered Crowley one, but he declined. He didn’t have a problem with Aziraphale eating in the car (although the Bentley wouldn’t stand for that sort of nonsense) but the wet sound of the sweet clinking against Aziraphale’s teeth was enough to make his fingers grip the steering wheel. He didn’t hate the sound, the opposite, in fact. He’d always got a strange pleasure in seeing and hearing Aziraphale eat, the wetter the food, the better. So when Aziraphale pushed the sweet around with his tongue and gave it a particularly powerful  _ suck, _ the sound filling the car, Crowley was ready to go ahead with the next stage of his plan. Anything to smother the sound of that skilful mouth.

“Should I...put on some music?” Crowley finally said, mentally applauding himself for the casual ease in which he spoke. _ Keep it cool Crowley, don’t slip up. _

“Please, feel free. Are we going to listen to Queen again?”   


“Uh...no.” This was the whole reason he wasn’t using the Bentley, he didn’t think it would allow him to play the music he had in mind for today’s trip. He flicked the CD player on and inserted the CD he’d brought.

As they drove from SoHo to Brighton (a good two to three hour ride, depending on traffic, filler, they were treated to a playlist rattling out of the tinny CDplayer that consisted of:

_ Bitches Ain’t Shit - Dr. Dre _

_ Smack My Bitch Up - The Prodigy _

_ Territorial Pissings - Nirvana _

and many more

Aziraphale was such a gentleman (gentleangel?) that it was only when they reached _ Fuck Machine  _ by Mindless Self Indulgence, that he rather timidly spoke. Perhaps he’d finally drawn the line because the lyrics were so sexual and Crowley had taken to singing them aloud.

“Crowley, this selection of songs are very...colourful. Do you perhaps think we could listen to something else?”

“Uh, yeah, would you mind grabbing the CD case out of the glove box?”

Crowley waited until he could (from the corner of his eye), Aziraphale holding the case. Even his blurred peripheral vision clearly showed Aziraphale’s distaste, holding the CD case like it was something diseased.

“Before I change the music, what song are we on at the moment? I want to listen to this later so I need to make a note of where I got up to.” He had him by the wings now, didn’t he?

“You appear to be at number 33.”

“Hmm, what was the title?” he glanced over at his friend, trying not to make it obvious. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips, disapprovingly. “I believe it was...coitus machine.”

Crowley let out a loud laugh, and laughed even harder at Aziraphale’s little harrumph of irritation. “Coitus machine? Okay, if you say so!”

Aziraphale didn’t reply to that, he simply reached over and began pressing buttons. Never one who was comfortable behind the wheel, he succeeded only in turning on the windscreen wipers on and activating the right indicator, when Crowley was heading left, earning them a disgruntled honk from the car behind them. Crowley took pity on him and killed the music, to Aziraphale’s visible relief.

Perhaps somebody less morally grey than Crowley would feel some sting of guilt for annoying him like this, but then, it was only music, human music, and it was for the greater good. Swearing is great, allowing yourself to swear widens your vocabulary, helps you bond with other people and there’s nothing quite so satisfying as shouting out an emphatic “FUCK!” after you’ve been mildly inconvenienced. When Crowley had been running about like a headless chicken, fearing the world was going to end, he’d sworn a fair bit. He truly thought when Aziraphale divested himself of this last taboo, he’d feel much better. 

He wondered what would be the first swear word he’d hear Aziraphale say. Probably nothing too violent or crude, so that was a few out. The only one that he knew Aziraphale had said before, was fuck. So it wasn’t unreasonable to think that this would be the one he’d say when he finally gave in. Fuck was a good word. It means a lot of things and has a different tone, depending on the context. It could be angry, could be amazed, could be...sexy.

The thought of Aziraphale swearing, that pretty mouth and beautifully measured voice spilling out absolute filth, should have been comical but somehow, it wasn’t. It was powerful, in a way that gripped Crowley’s guts, heated him from the inside out, made the car suddenly feel far too small and far too hot. Sitting in a tiny metal box with the object of his desire, what was he thinking? At least Aziraphale was an angel and therefore couldn’t sense Crowley’s desire. He felt like the car was stuffed with lust, wet with it, it was a surprise the windows weren’t steamed up from the fire burning within him. He pictured Aziraphale standing in his bookshop, an Aziraphale that was very much the sweet, chubby, apple-cheeked angel, but an Aziraphale who somehow felt the need to remove all his clothing and drape himself over Crowley’s back, like a living coat. An Aziraphale who whispered the most depraved things Crowley could think of, which were a lot. Muttering aggressively sexual things, pleas and orders, ideas for activities that probably weren’t biologically possible, and oh, how Crowley would indulge him if he asked. Not that he’d ever been able to deny him anything. And the Crowley in that fantasy, who also somehow was wearing very little, would turn in that embrace and grab a handful of Aziraphale’s flesh, possibly his hips or his soft waist.

And Aziraphale would smile, that sweet, little smile that could damn a more innocent soul than his, and grab Crowley’s hands and bring them lower -

“CROWLEY! SLOW DOWN, WATCH THE ROAD YOU- YOU STUPID, YOU - CROWLEY!”

The indignant squawking tore him from his fantasy and Crowley hurriedly took his foot off the accelerator, letting the car drop down to a more acceptable speed. Whoops. The car was clanking, gasping for life, it wasn’t made to be pushed to its limits like this. Aziraphale was ranting still, going on about “If we die, we’ll have to get Heaven and Hell to give us new corporations and oh, won’t that be an awkward conversation!” and “-completely careless, you could have hit someone” and “Whatever you were thinking about must have been good, you were grinning like a loon! Hope it was worth it!”   


Aziraphale was never one quick to anger, but then, he must have been frightened. Crowley watched the speedometer guiltily and behaved himself for the rest of the journey. They reached Brighton and had a nice afternoon, watching the waves and then having a fish dinner in seaside restaurant and drove back without any more excitement. The speeding incident wasn’t spoken of again, although, before he’d started the drive back, Crowley had inspected the car and the tyres were looking a bit worse for wear. He still chalked it up to a success though. When Aziraphale had been stressed, he’d been closer to swearing than ever. So all Crowley had to do was find something else that would make him stressed, only, without the danger element this time. Easy, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed it, leave a kudos or comment! The next chapter will be called The Goose Is Loose, so watch this space!


	3. The Goose Is Loose!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday now (in my time zone) so here is the latest chapter! Crowley enlists the help of a new ally, to get the fair angel to swear.

**Crowley and Aziraphale encounter the Goose from the popular computer game, Untitled Goose Game. You don’t need to have any knowledge of the game to enjoy this though, just imagine a little goose who likes to cause mayhem and that’s the game.**

Crowley still believed that anger (or at the very least, irritation) was the key to unlocking Aziraphale’s potty mouth. He deliberated on it a few days, just long enough for Aziraphale to forgive him for the speed racing stunt. He wasn’t sure how to anger Aziraphale in a way that not only didn’t cause any permanent damage to their friendship but didn’t cause permanent damage to their property or corporations.

He was walking through a park when he heard sounds of commotion, funny, because those sorts of sounds were normally caused by  _ him. _ He followed the source of the sound and discovered a group of primary school children, probably on a school trip, judging by the fact that they were all in uniform and escorted by an old woman. The children were jumping up and down in excitement and alarm, all because of a big white goose. The goose had stolen one of the kids’ backpacks and was dragging it towards a pond. It stopped, leaving the bag just in front of the pond and waddled away. The teacher, shaking her head crossly, marched over and bent down to pick up the bag. Just as she was bending down, the goose crept up behind her and loudly honked, startling her so badly, she fell in the pond. The park was alive with the sound of childrens’ laughter.

It was perfect. But he had to be sure.

For the rest of the afternoon, Crowley followed the goose to make sure it was actually worthy of contributing to his plan. It could have been a fluke, after all. Perhaps it may seem pathetic to follow a bird around a park for a few hours, but then, considering that Crowley was a single, unemployed entity with one friend in the universe, he considered this one of his least pathetic experiences. Now, damn, if that wasn’t depressing. But then the goose pantsed a snobby businessman and Crowley started laughing again.

The goose was brilliant. It upset more humans in one afternoon than Hastur and Ligur could in a month! It stole things, sneaked up on people, splashed picnickers, and played all sorts of pranks. It didn’t discriminate, everybody was fair game.

Crowley knew it was smart, so he decided to trap it. He stole a picnic hamper (hey, he could be just as crafty as the goose) and hid it in some bushes. He knew the goose seemed to like taking people’s possessions, so he took off his belt and carefully laid it out on the ground, then disappeared into the bushes. The goose briskly waddled over, and inspected the belt, honking in interest. The moment it bent and took the belt in its beak, Crowley pounced, throwing the hamper over it. The goose honked indignantly and struggled, but it knew it was beaten.

Crowley picked up the hamper and swaggered back to the Bentley. 

* * *

Crowley examined the goose when he got back to his flat. It was really quite a cute thing (the goose, not the flat (he was going for cool and austere in there). The waterfowl was big, with fluffy, pure white feathers, and a bright orange beak. Crowley detected some faint demonic energy from it, very low-level, more mischievous than malevolent, which suited his needs. It was probably one of Beelzebub’s old experiments.

He didn’t dare let it roam free because, when he gave it a tour of the flat (perhaps Aziraphale’s manners had rubbed off on him) it eyed his plants in a way he didn’t like.

So instead, he tied it to the leg of his chair and dropped to his knees, looking it square in its eyes. “Look, I don’t like you and you don’t like me. But I need to cause chaos to an angel’s bookshop, and I can’t do that without you. Or not as well. If you help me, not only will I let you go free afterwards, I’ll even throw in a bag of bread, the good stuff, Hovis or something, for your troubles, how does that sound?”

The goose bobbed its head in what (on a human) would be a nod, and honked in agreement. Like most humans, it was motivated by dough.

* * *

Crowley hoped the goose had a plan because he sure as hell didn’t. As he pulled up to the bookshop in his car, he craned his neck to see Azirphale pottering about, through the window. The goose was sat beside him in the passenger seat, buckled in securely but otherwise unrestrained. No need for that, they’d made a deal. They’d even shaken hands, sort of. The goose had stuck out its wing and Crowley had awkwardly shaken it, then heaved a sigh of relief that nobody had been there to witness the silly exchange.

He pointed Aziraphale out to the goose. Both creatures were cute, blond, winged utter bastards who were able to consume their body weight in bread. He hoped they wouldn’t form an alliance against him. He unbuckled the goose, resisting the urge to tickle its tiny webbed feet and set it down on the ground. He told it pretty much the same thing he’d been told all those years ago, to get up there and make trouble. 

He gave it five minutes and skulked outside the bookshop like a guy about to rob a bank, and only poked his head around the door when he heard screaming.

Only five minutes, what a pro.

This was one of the few days Aziraphale actually had customers, which was fortuitous for Crowley because that kind of thing always frayed Aziraphale’s nerves. Those nerves would surely snap after the goose’s chaos.

Crowley walked in to see Aziraphale and eight customers standing on chairs, tables, one woman was even trying to climb a bookshelf to avoid the feathered intruder. What an overreaction, it’s just a goose.

_ A goose with a broom. _

The goose was using the broom to dislodge books from the shelves above it, dodging the flying books with a grace that impressed Crowley. It was also using the broom to try and dislodge the customers too and succeeded in knocking one woman’s handbag off her shoulder.

Aziraphale was perched on a table and discreetly trying to click his fingers, looking more and more perplexed the longer this went on. Of course, miracles wouldn’t work; this was no ordinary goose. Crowley thought it might be best to beat a hasty retreat but then Aziraphale spotted him and beckoned frantically. 

“Crowley! Oh thank heavens!”

The relief in his voice was glorious, it washed over Crowley like refreshing summer rain, he wished he could strip off and bathe in it. He hurried over, looking up at the angel with false concern.

“What’s going on, angel? Fowl behaviour?” The pun, tragically, was lost on Aziraphale.

“This - this feathered  _ fiend _ has been destroying my books! Catch it, Crowley, quickly!”

“You got it,” Crowley replied, smirking, and waded through the books to where the goose stood, wielding its broom with a skill unbefitting of such a little creature. He made a big show of grabbing the bird, while the goose honked and flapped in mock-alarm.

Eventually, he had the bird cradled in his arms, and everybody calmed down almost immediately.

The customers stepped down from their perches, and Crowley held out an arm to help Aziraphale down. He still felt a jolt of surprised pleasure when Aziraphale touched him, even though it was platonic,  _ always _ platonic.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but one of the customers, the woman who had had her handbag knocked off her arm, interrupted them, shoving a pile of books into Aziraphale’s arms.

“This is the worst shop I’ve ever seen! I’m not buying these, in fact, I’m never coming here again!” She scooped her handbag off the floor and stormed out, to a cacophony of the goose’s victory honking. The other customers followed, leaving the books they’d been interested in and muttering complaints about the shop, until at last, it was just Crowley and Aziraphale in the shop. Oh, and the goose of course.

“So angel, that was interesting. Must have been a stressful day. How - er - would you describe it?”

Aziraphale placed the books on the counter, frowning. Here we go. “This was absolutely, without a doubt-” Aziraphale suddenly broke out into a wide smile. “The best day I’ve had for a long time!”

“I...what?”

“Those customers were obnoxious, Crowley. Rifling through my books, haggling on pricing, showing me their phone to inform me that they could buy it cheaper on the internet - they were awful! But I could hardly ask them to leave, could I? Lucky this spirited little thing was here.” Aziraphale affectionately ruffled the goose’s head and it nuzzled his hand.

“You...like the goose?”

“Yes! I might keep it. It’s a beauty, don’t you think? And if any of the feathers fall out, I can use them as bookmarks.”

“You can’t keep the goose! It’s not - it doesn’t want to stay here,” he said, rather lamely.

The goose tugged on the hem of Aziraphale’s jacket with its beak and he took it from Crowley and hugged it. The goose seemed to be looking at Crowley as if to say _ I’ve only known this bloke for less than an hour and already he’s touched me more than he touches you. _

It didn’t seem like Aziraphale was going to swear, he looked far too happy for that. But as Crowley watched him feed the goose a few crumbs of bread from his lunch, the demon figured that wasn’t a bad thing. He’d, indirectly, brightened Aziraphale’s day. It was impossible to call that anything but a win.


	4. Picnic Palaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries his hand at being a difficult customer. Then he, Aziraphale and the goose, drive to the countryside to have a picnic.

Crowley wasn’t sure if the goose had imprinted on Aziraphale or if he had imprinted on it. He took it everywhere, Aziraphale and Crowley would walk through London, accompanied by the steady slap of webbed feet as the goose hurried behind them. Aziraphale was worried the goose would walk into traffic, so he’d put a tiny collar and lead on it, and it seemed perfectly happy with that. They’d struggled on deciding on a name for their new companion, Crowley voted for Ryan Gosling, but Aziraphale hadn’t understood the reference so that was out. Aziraphale had settled on Nutty, lovingly named after Agnes Nutter. 

“Naming a fat goose after a dead woman. That’s a nice way to honour her.” Crowley had snarked, but Aziraphale had chosen to take it as a genuine compliment.

He still hadn’t found a way to make Aziraphale swear, all he’d managed to do was foist a malicious goose on the two of them. But now, the next day, Crowley stood in the bookshop, while Aziraphale bustled around a few shelves over, and spoke quietly to his former partner in crime.

“Your little stunt earlier didn’t make him swear, but I’m not giving up yet. I’m going to try and get him to turn the air blue if it kills me. You’re his pet now -”

The goose honked fiercely.

“No, not his pet, his...friend. I need to know, are you going to get in my way or leave me to it?”

Nutty flapped its wings in a way that resembled a shrug.

“Okay, I don’t know what to make of that. But I’m going to assume you’re planning to behave because Christmas is coming and my mouth is watering at the thought of roast goose and stuffing!”

Nutty didn’t seem bothered. It knew it was an empty threat.

Crowley wasn’t sure how he was going to achieve his goal, but one thing was clear: it was all down to him. He slipped out of the bookshop and into his car. He had work to do.

* * *

Crowley re-entered the bookshop a little while later, looking distinctly different. Even Nutty gave him a second look. Crowley had made a few alterations to his corporation and now looked to be a human female in her nineties. He’s made his hair a little longer and a lot greyer, it now hung to his jaw in a no-nonsense bob. The trick was not to make his disguise look too similar to Nanny Ashtoreth, Aziraphale had spent eleven years working with him dressed like that, it would give him away immediately. His long black coat (buttoned up to the neck) hid most of his body and his black lace skirt and black boots covered the rest. His reflection in the windowpane showed a cantankerous octogenarian, a stuffy old cold fish who lived to infuriate retail workers. Perfect.

“Not a word to him, understand?” he murmured, and Nutty quacked. He was ready.

“Excuse me! Can I get some service!” His voice was designed to get into one’s ears and scratch at the brain, it was a shrill cry, hardened with age and lacking any warmth. 

Aziraphale bustled over, his expression innocent enough although his eyes already looked a little troubled.

“I do apologise, miss, I was in the back and-”

“I don’t care what you were doing!” Crowley croaked. “I am a busy woman and I won’t have my inferiors slacking off!”

Aziraphale mouthed the word ‘inferiors’ to himself. “Uh, alright, I’m sorry. How may I help you today?”

Crowley stalked closer, and, to his satisfaction, he saw Aziraphale take a step back. “I am looking for a book in my youth. I read it as a lass and enjoyed it immensely. Would you be able to find it for me?”

“I don’t see why not. Um, who did you say was the author?”

“You foolish boy, I don’t recall that! It was more than seventy years ago! But it was a story about a young woman who embarked on an adventure.”

“A young woman, I see. Do you know the name of the book, or of the main character? What publishing house produced it?”

“How am I supposed to know that? But I know it had a pretty cover, surely that must be enough for you to go on!”

Aziraphale’s hands were clasped in front of him, knotting the fingers together. Crowley recognised it as a nervous gesture.

“She was in a field, if that helps,” he said, tightening his lips against the laugh that threatened to burst out.

“And you say it was an old book?”

“I didn’t say that,”   


“But you said it was from your youth?”

“You  _ impudent man, _ are you calling me old?”

“No, no, I think you’re, um, lovely and...youthful?” He cast a desperate look around looking -  _ looking for me, Crowley realised happily - _ but found nothing so was forced to address his customer again.

Crowley folded his arms on his bosom. “Are you flirting with me? I’ll have you know, I am not interested,”

Aziraphale shook his head vigorously. “No! No, I wasn’t-”

Okay, he was really going to laugh soon. “You deviant, attempting to seduce a widow!”

“No, I can assure you I was not, I’m - I’m already spoken for!”

_ Spoken for? _ Crowley’s heart convulsed at that, but he decided to put the thought to one side, to address later.

Aziraphale was desperately pulling books off the shelves, glancing at the covers and then disregarding them. He hadn’t looked this stressed since all the prophecy gubbins. At last, he pulled out a book, scanned it and rushed over to where Crowley stood.

“Please. Could it be this?” Poor Aziraphale, he was actually panting.

Crowley spared the book a glace. _Heidi_ by _Johanna Spyri._ The cover showed a young maiden in a field. 

“It’s from 1881, so definitely older than seventy years,” Aziraphale said in a rush. Crowley took pity on him. He smiled at him, but on this fearsome woman’s face, it had an unwelcoming effect and Aziraphale shrank back.

“Thank you, young man, that’s exactly what I’m looking. You’ll have to forgive me, I cannot buy it here, I’ll - er, get my grandson to buy it for me online,” He was being kind, he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t actually want to part with the book.

Aziraphale sighed in relief, and then straightened up and smiled. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear this is the one you were looking for! Th-thank you for dropping in and do have a splendid day!”   


“I will,” Crowley murmured and fled, holding his skirts above his ankles, fearing a trip. Once he was outside, he returned to his usual suave self and sauntered in, hands in his pockets.

“That was a failure, Nutty. But thanks for not blowing my cover,”   
  


“Crowley!” Aziraphale called, and fuck, the way he said Crowley’s name, he didn’t think he’d ever tire of hearing it. To his surprise, Aziraphale rushed up to him and threw his arms around Crowley’s neck.

“I just had a customer, oh, I don’t want to speak ill of humans but - goodness! She was a - a piece of work!” Aziraphale said breathlessly.

Crowley’s brain was having trouble processing what Aziraphale was saying because there were arms around him, firm, and warm and Aziraphale’s soft belly pressed against him.

“Hey, I’m sorry to hear that but it’s just us in here now,”

Crowley tentatively brought his hands up to clasp Aziraphale’s shoulders and they both stood there for a few minutes. 

He looked over Aziraphale’s shoulder to see the goose, watching them from two beady eyes. There was a calculating look on its feathery face, that Crowley didn’t trust.

* * *

After all the business with ‘that harridan in the big coat’, Aziraphale had insisted on closing the shop up early, and requested that Crowley take them ‘somewhere nice’. Crowley had enthusiastically agreed.

They were going on a picnic. Aziraphale had filled the Bentley’s boot with a picnic hamper, an icebox and other bits and bobs. So now, they sat in the Bentley, trundling along at a speed that made Crowley dig his nails into the steering wheel in frustration, but Aziraphale had forbidden him from driving too fast. “It’ll scare the bird,” he’d said.

Aziraphale was sat in his usual place, the passenger seat, but with the new addition of Nutty on his lap. Crowley glowered at the fat bird, spread out on Aziraphale’s lap and pulling on his bowtie playfully with its stupid orange beak. Aziraphale couldn’t stop fussing with it, smoothing down errant feathers, stroking its back or head, giving it a squeezing hug, prattling on to it about whatever he deemed interesting. Crowley drove along, trying desperately to keep his eyes on the road but every few seconds, there was the sound of Aziraphale’s delighted giggle and the flash of white feathers in his peripheral vision. He’d never seen Aziraphale be so...touchy-feely before. But then, who would he be tactile with? The other angels had never accepted Aziraphale, the fools. And it’s not like Aziraphale would want to touch Crowley.

He was treated to a sudden surreal daydream, where he sat on Aziraphale’s lap, curled up comfortably on his big, soft thighs, while Aziraphale patted him and said lovely things to him.

“Oh, you’re so pretty, aren’t you? I could kiss you forever!” Aziraphale squealed, and Crowley was jolted from his reverie, realising he was sitting in front of a steering wheel on the M25, not in Aziraphale’s arms. Damn. 

Aziraphale must have been lonelier than he realised. He faintly remembered from his days as an angel that they used to groom each other’s wings, as a way of bonding but also forn basic wing maintenance. Of course, the idea of getting one of his fellow demons to do that was laughable - you were supposed to be independent in Hell. But seeing Aziraphale fuss with Nutty’s wings, he wondered if Aziraphale missed it. It would be weird to ask him if he wanted grooming. But then, it was an honest request and Aziraphale was free to say no. Perhaps he’d ask him later. He didn’t want to ask him with Nutty in earshot.

* * *

They’d found a field that didn’t have any signs up about trespassing (not that those would have fazed Crowley anyway) and set up their blanket and the Tupperware bowls and paper plates. Aziraphale was always happy to have an excuse to eat, and Crowley liked the privacy, just him and Aziraphale in this vast carpet of green. Oh and Nutty. 

Nutty seemed determined to cause mischief. Although it was briefly distracted by the prawns Aziraphale offered it, it soon returned to its old ways. It grabbed a water bottle in its beak and squeezed, spraying Crowley’s jacket and tie with cold water. He could have used a miracle to clean up, but earlier, Aziraphale had prohibited either of them from using their powers, until Nutty had a chance to ‘get used to them’. Crowley didn’t bother explaining that the goose possessed demonic qualities, he just sighed and shucked off his jacket and tie. Stupid bird. That water had been in the ice cooler for a while so it was freezing when it splashed over him. He hugged his chest, aware that his nipples were hard and pushing against his shirt. Aziraphale was pointedly not looking at his chest, and there was a pink flush on his cheeks. At least the sun was on their backs, he’d soon warm up.

Crowley picked at cocktail sausages while Aziraphale made himself a huge doorstep sandwich with smoked salmon, tiny prawns and some crabsticks. It was kind of nice, sprawled out on Aziraphale’s tartan blanket, watching the light set in the horizon, as Nutty waddled around, sticking its beak in everything. 

Crowley knew the peace wouldn’t last though; as he was packing up the food with Aziraphale, the goose struck again.

He was only aware of something constricting his ankles when it was too late. He fell, and Aziraphale fell with him. He’d landed heavily on the angel, and Aziraphale let out a little squeak of shock.

It was the lead, the bloody goose’s lead, tied around both his and Aziraphale’s ankles. A lesser demon would have assumed this was coincidental, but Crowley knew better. He sought out Nutty, made eye contact and he knew. It was sabotage.

“Crowley, oh…” Aziraphale said, pushing helplessly at Crowley’s chest. Crowley almost groaned at the touch, but common sense prevailed and he rolled off the angel, untying the lead so they could both wriggle free.

“It’s that bloody goose. Don’t know why you let it follow you around,”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Nutty loves you!”

The only thing Nutty loved was wreaking as much havoc as a fat goose could, but Crowley didn’t want to ruin a perfectly-good afternoon by telling Aziraphale that, so instead, he suggested that Aziraphale go and read under the nearby apple tree, while he finished packing up.

Nutty seemed determined to get under Crowley’s feet as he packed everything back in the hamper. Eventually, he had enough and hunkered down on the grass, fixing his demonic gaze on Nutty.

“Okay, goose, what is your problem?”

The goose bent down, showing off its tail. Unbelievable, was this bird mooning him? But then Nutty resurfaced, a daisy in its beak, hanging by the stalk. It gave Crowley a look.

“Oh, so now you wanna be friends?” He reached for the daisy, but the goose backed away. “Either give me the thing or don’t, I’m not going to chase you for it,”

Nutty waggled its head in a way that Crowley assumed was a headshake. It cast a look at Aziraphale, then back at Crowley. Aziraphale was leaning against the trunk of the tree, engrossed in his book. The setting sun was behind him and he was bathed in its golden glow. Crowley smiled at the sight.

It was slowly dawning on Crowley that Nutty’s tricks might not have been as random as they’d seemed. Making Crowley take his jacket off, tripping them up so they fell down together. Surely not…?

“Are you trying to...matchmake?”

Nutty cackled.

“Wow. Okay. You’re a very strange goose. Give me that,” he accepted the daisy and walked over to Aziraphale. He could do this, he could do this. Nutty was confidently waddling on his heels and weirdly, it made him feel braver.

“Hey, angel! Look what Nutty picked up for you!”   


Aziraphale caught sight of the daisy and smiled. “How lovely! Thank you, Nutty. And thank you, Crowley. Would you put it on me?” He rose to his knees and lifted his jacket lapel with two fingers.

Crowley bent down and threaded the flower through his buttonhole. “Beautiful,”

Aziraphale smiled up at him. 

Maybe it was the rich food, the sun in his eyes or something else, but he felt bowled over the angel kneeling in front of him. Aziraphale, so kind and gentle, sleepy and content after a big meal, looking up at him with those big eyes.

He grabbed him and kissed him.

His hair was soft and warmed by the sun, he broke off to bury his nose in those blond curls and inhaled. He smelt clean and new, like fresh grass, it was a natural smell, like the earth itself and he breathed it in, wishing to fill his lungs with it forever. When he drew back, Aziraphale was gazing up at him with wonder. He felt unsteady, and was grateful for the steady earth beneath his knees.

“So, I suppose this changes things?”

“I suppose it does,” Aziraphale replied.

Nutty jumped into their embrace and they both laughed.


End file.
